Imperfect
by Queen of Dreaming
Summary: There are a great many reasons Mary does not want to hate Sherlock Holmes. There are also a great many reasons it is hard for her to like him.


**Disclaimer: You may not have noticed, but your URL says FANfiction dot net. If you think I own it, I despair for the human race.**

Mary does not want to hate Sherlock Holmes.

There are many, many reasons for this. One of them is that she quite simply doesn't like to hate people. A second is that, her personal feelings aside, a lady doesn't hate. A third is that she knows Mr. Holmes is a great detective who has put a vast number of dangerous criminals behind bars where they will not menace the public any more, and for that he deserves the gratitude, not the hate, of the ordinary citizens for whom he has made the streets safe. But no matter how many times she tries to persuade herself, those are not the reasons she tries so hard not to hate him.

Mary is not a genius. She is not a great detective. She is not a scheming and seductive con woman, and she has not lived with Mr. Holmes long enough to learn from him. But she is not a fool, and she knows her fiancé, and she is not _blind._ She knows full well that if she intends, as she does, to marry John Watson, she absolutely must get along with Mr. Holmes.

It is with the best of intentions that she goes to the restaurant to meet this man, and it takes her years to understand why it all went so horribly wrong. It is because he has been resisting. It is because she is not perfect, and though she thought she had made her peace with this, she is still jealous. And it is also because she has buried that, suffocated the flames as best she could, tried her best not to antagonize him, and he has refused even to meet her. (She knows perfectly well that it isn't Watson's fault they haven't been introduced; again, whatever he thinks she is no fool.) She does not mean to challenge him, but her pretty silken gauntlet is lying at his feet in moments. If he'd done anything but show off his intimate knowledge of John, she could have collected herself and remained civil, but he certainly has read her well enough to tighten the screws. "I insist." Why yes, Mr. Holmes, I do insist. I'll know what you think of me, if you please.

Evidently, he sees a gold-digging loose woman, but the insult is merely the last straw. He is a great man, a brilliant one, a genius who is older, stronger and wiser than she; it is brutally, brutally unfair that she should swallow everything and try to offer goodwill, or at least civility, whilst he antagonizes her like this.

After all, she is the one who's _marrying the man._

The next morning there are significantly fewer ugly vases in her collection, but she is slightly calmer. She isn't yet ready to offer friendliness to the detective again, and she will not be for a while, but neither is she in a condition to throw wine in his face in the middle of a crowded restaurant. She hopes devoutly that someday John will be able to tease her about that and she will be able to laugh without clenching her fists into her skirt.

She, at least, reaches that point years sooner than she expected. It is perhaps a shame that it took John's injury to make her realize it, but the tightness in the detective's voice as he ignores her challenge triggers a realization. Sherlock loves him. She knew that they were vitally important to each other, and she knew that they were… improper, perhaps, but she never knew that it was the same thing until now. And that will be something new to make her peace with, but she thinks that perhaps this time it will be easier.

She also thinks that it is not impossible that Sherlock has only just had a similar revelation about _her_ feelings for John.

There are a lot of things she tries to communicate to Sherlock. But, again, she is an ordinary woman, and she doesn't really speak his language. She first manages to indicate her knowledge on a quiet night when he and John have been out together and met up with her. John steps away for a moment to speak to a man he knows, and Sherlock and Mary are left standing by a city wall. The air bites at them as Sherlock leans against the wall, and Mary watches him watch the man who is going to become her husband.

"You're right," she says, fiddling with her gloves. "The little details are important." His eyes widen and she is almost satisfied with his shock, his realization, and within a moment, his fear. She only folds her hands and averts her gaze, and she is fairly sure that that did not help but at least he has realized that she knows.

The moment comes when the three of them are in a cab together. It's terribly late, and John has fallen asleep, and she sees, out of the corner of her eye, that Sherlock has taken one of her fiancé's hands. Her instinct is to reach for the other one, and of course the detective sees. She is surprised when he, guiltily, lifts his fingers back to himself, and she catches his eye and gives a funny jerk of her head which she hopes he can interpret. His eyebrows creep into his hairline and his fingers slowly settle back. They spend the rest of the cab ride like that, each taking a hand.

After that, it is the beginning of an understanding. Sherlock asks her one night, when they have another moment to converse, "Does he know?" She raises an eyebrow at that, because she still does not know him well but she has learned him well enough.

"Of course he knows."

"Well, yes, of course. But does he know you know?"

She is silent, because she does not want to admit the answer to this. "I don't believe so."

"Perhaps that's well enough."

_No,_ she thinks, _it's not._

She does have to tell him, because she does love him, but it's hardly an easy conversation to have. My dear, I thought you should know that I am aware of the scandalous nature of the relationship between you and your best friend… no.

Her opportunity comes when John throws his greatcoat on the sofa with unnecessary force, and she raises her eyes from her needlework to ask him, as she must, what is wrong.

"Oh, nothing," he lies, flinging himself into a much-abused armchair. "Holmes wanted me to go see him again, that's all."

"Ah." The silence lingers until she stills the needle that's glinting like a minnow, folds her hands over her skirt again, and says "If I were going to be jealous of him, I never could have married you."

No noise is made, but it is anything but quiet, and she wishes that she were a better woman, one strong enough to keep the sadness from her eyes as she smiles into his terror and his pain.

"Mary," he whispers at last. "You can't mean –"

"I do." The terror is fading, but she can see that he's afraid of the relief seeping into his bones. His hands are sunk into the seam of his shirt, and she realizes that it is because of Sherlock that she even notices that. "It's not as if one can choose one's emotions, after all."

"You know that you are very dear to me," he says at last, and she can't keep looking at him for much longer because it would be easier if she claimed him for herself.

"I have never doubted that."

**Well, there you have it. This - slash from the perspective of the female love interest - is something I've been wanting to try for a while, and there are a number of different fandoms where I think it could apply. What do you think? I welcome - nay, beg for - constructive criticism.  
**


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